


Ficlets

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2018-12-13 17:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 20,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11764509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Very short pieces originally posted on tumblrLatest: Ch. 26 - "Sport" -- When Cas is taken for an underground fight ring, Dean stops at nothing to get him back. MoC!Dean





	1. Paint the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted these on tumblr as just some random, very short pieces, but now that I have a few of them, I thought maybe I'd go ahead and make a collection for them here.

 

Sam finds Cas at the top of the mound under which the bunker is buried.

"Dude, what are you doing up here?"

"Watching the sunset," Cas replies.

"Uh, okay." Sam comes to stand beside him, facing west where splashes of coral, fuchsia, and orchid-violet smear across the sky in sweeping brushstrokes. Sure, it's pretty, but Cas must have seen thousands of them in his lifetime.

Still, there's something somber and nostalgic about the angel, an almost wistful glimmer in his eyes as he gazes out toward the horizon. So Sam stands there and watches the sunset with him as the colors intensify, deepening into darker shades that will soon be swallowed by the encroaching dusk.

"I guess no two sunsets are exactly the same," he finally says to break the silence. But it also breaks the spell.

Cas looks over at him with a quarter of a smile. "When I had my wings, I used to fly into the atmosphere and paint the sky at sunset. I never created the same pattern twice." He ducks his head as though suddenly ashamed. "It was childish."

Sam frowns. "That doesn't sound childish. It sounds pretty cool, actually."

Cas just shrugs and turns his back on the stunning view. "Well, it was a long time ago, before the wars."

He heads back down the slope. Sam lingers, thoughtful.

The next evening, Cas finds a sketchbook and oil pastels in his room. He never says anything to Sam about them; maybe he's self-conscious about Dean finding out. Sam doesn't need a verbal acknowledgement, anyway; the small tug at Castiel's mouth that reaches all the way to his eyes is enough.

So is the dazzling sunset rendered on artist's paper that gets slipped under his door sometime the following day.


	2. Paint Your Soul

 

Castiel started experimenting with colors. In theory, every shade on the visible spectrum could be created by mixing the primary, secondary, and even tertiary color blends. But it was a long and arduous process trying to replicate that one exact hue. Or in this case, several.

Dark hunter-green was easy enough, but there were nuances of cyan and emerald swirled together in a rich, vibrant aura. There were also a few blood-red fractures that made Castiel's heart ache to see, but he would not paint over them, would not cover them up. They were part of what made this soul strong, having endured so much.

Then there was saffron with gleaming flecks of gold and bronze. And rust. Rivulets of a foreign corruption inlaid so long ago. But they were faint now, dormant. This soul pulsed with the radiance of a blazing sun.

Castiel struggled for days on end to find the right shades. He knew his subjects by heart, but sometimes he would lapse into staring at them, studying each subtlety in the hopes of catching that one sliver of color he needed to work into his paints. He was teased for "zoning out," or sometimes chastised for doing the "creepy thing" again.

But Dean had later asked him quietly if he was alright.

"You've seemed distracted, man."

On the contrary, he was quite focused, and maybe a little too much on this current pursuit. But Castiel was driven by the inexplicable need to get this right. Because he watched the two humans who meant more to him than anything often succumb to bouts of self-loathing, guilt, and doubt. It pained Castiel that these heroes thought so little of themselves.

Yes, they had flaws, but Castiel wanted them to see that those cracks only added to the remarkable beauty of their souls. He wanted Sam and Dean to see what he saw.

Unfortunately, the only medium open to him was flawed as well. It couldn't capture the glow, the glister, the iridescent gleam.

But he could come close, and that was the best he could offer.

Which suddenly didn't seem like enough when he finally presented the pieces to the Winchesters. Castiel didn't know why he should feel self-conscious; he'd matched the various shades perfectly.

But the longer Sam and Dean stared at their portraits in silence, the more uncertain Castiel became. He tried to explain, what each shade represented—strength, valor, sacrifice—but that still didn't prompt a reaction.

After several more moments of awkward silence, Dean finally cleared his throat. "You, uh, really see all that?"

"Yes. I always have."

But perhaps his attempt to convey it hadn't worked the way he'd intended.

Sam looked contemplative, still staring at the piece of paper in his hands. Then he smiled, small and tentative, but genuine, like he was seeing something awe-inspiring for the first time. "Thanks, Cas," he said softly.

Castiel relaxed. Maybe he'd succeeded after all.


	3. Untitled (Season 13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this out of the blue. I think with all the anticipated angst over season 13, I wanted to comfort myself with the image of Cas being *happy* to be alive again. I tried to be vague around the specifics since I didn't want to speculate on how the show is going to bring him back.

Coming back from the dead is different this time. For one thing, Castiel remembers being dead. He remembers the Empty. And he remembers choosing, for the  _first_  time in his long string of deaths and resurrections, to fight to find his way back.

He doesn't know if he had a little help or if the stars conspired events to lead him to this place, but there's a flash of blinding light, and Castiel finds himself standing in front of the two people who'd given him the motivation to live. Sam and Dean stare at him in dismay. There's a third figure, one whose energy signature is familiar and unnerving, but Castiel can't worry about that right now.

"Sam, Dean." He smiles.

They gape at him, and Castiel feels a moment of uncertainty.

"Cas?" Dean whispers, taking a tentative step forward.

Castiel can't help but glance down at himself. His vessel is intact. There's not even a hole in the fabric of his shirt where the blade had pierced through.

He runs his hands down the suit jacket to smooth it out. "Yes."

Sam's face cracks into a disbelieving quarter smile. Dean remains somewhat stunned.

"Are you really back?" Dean asks, guardedly.

"Yes," Castiel repeats, and can't keep himself from beaming in response. He has never been so happy to feel oxygen swelling in his lungs, firm earth beneath his feet, and the weight of a physical vessel that has become  _him_.

Dean closes the distance and throws his arms around Castiel so fiercely that it punches some of that brand new oxygen from revived lungs. Castiel hugs back because he's home.

Dean's grip is tight and desperate and doesn't let up, even after Castiel tries to disengage after the acceptable time limit has passed. Castiel's arms hang at his sides, unsure what to do.

"You were dead," Dean breathes into his ear.

Castiel frowns at the raw and ragged emotion, and he raises his arms to hug back again. He hesitates. "…I got better."

Dean huffs out a choked laugh, and then Sam is coming forward and throwing his wide arms around them both, squeezing Castiel even tighter. He is suddenly overwhelmed by a deluge of emotions radiating from both Winchesters—shattering grief, clawing hope, exhilarating relief, and all-encompassing  _love_. Castiel had realized back in the Empty how much he wanted to go back, to do things over and stay with Sam and Dean. This was where he belonged, though it took him too long to figure out.

He had not imagined, however, that the strength of their feelings toward him would run as deeply.

Castiel shifts one arm to wrap around Sam, and clings to his family. There is pain here, an anguish he had not expected. He suspects it won't instantly mend, either. But rather than the crushing guilt Castiel was used to shouldering, he feels oddly touched. Cherished. He will be there for them now.

Castiel fought through fire and water to find his way back this time; he's not going to waste it.


	4. Be nice to black cats

To this day, Castiel still doesn’t understand how Samhain went from a festival of changing seasons and rituals to ward off ghosts, to people dressing up in costumes for the delight of it, and the chance to acquire gross amounts of candy. Instead of fearing death, the humans decorate with it, from skeletons to severed heads, grave stones to coffins.

Yet despite the uniform color theme of black, there seems to be one instance where the shade is intolerable.

Castiel pauses on the sidewalk at the mouth of an alley and tilts his head toward the faint mewling issuing from down near the dumpsters. He turns and makes his way toward it, coming to a stop in front of a pile of broken down cardboard boxes. Crouching down, he peers under one flap. The small creature hiding beneath it is a blob of black, save for two yellow eyes staring back at him, wide and terrified. He can sense the agony radiating from it, along with the fear.

Castiel extends a tendril of grace. “I won’t hurt you.”

The animal’s racing heart echoes in his ears like drums, but after several long moments, it begins to uncurl. It crawls forward on its belly, dragging one hind leg behind it. Castiel lays a large, gentle hand on the cat’s back, and it yelps at the touch, flinching away but not fleeing. Castiel’s heart clenches with sympathy and fury as he quickly sweeps his grace over the cigarette burns.

He then reaches out his other hand and carefully lifts the cat into his arms. The broken leg dangles, and the feline lets out another pained yowl. Castiel cups the leg and heals it, too. With one last brush of grace, he mends the rest of the damage. The cat’s coiled muscles begin to relax in his hold, but it’s still shaking. Castiel folds up one end of his tench coat to bundle around the cat, tucking it close against his chest.

“You’re safe now,” he promises.

The feline burrows its head into his arm, and Castiel sees the memories of men luring it out with the promise of food before the abuse started. It’s difficult to tell from the victim’s point of view whether the humans were simply cruel or too superstitious to consider their actions. Either way, they should hope they never encounter this angel’s wrath.

Castiel carries the cat out of the filthy alley and back to his vehicle where he climbs in and just sits, shielded from the colder temperatures outside. A low rumble begins to vibrate from the feline’s throat, wheezy at first, but eventually settling into a soft, sleepy rhythm. He lets the poor cat fall asleep in his lap, wrapped in his coat. Yes, he has a lot of things to do, but he can stop for a bit and do something for someone else. Especially at a time when few others will.

Castiel stays like that for a long while. Cats are professional sleepers, after all. But he finds that he doesn’t mind the company.


	5. Rock, Paper, Scissors

Castiel has untold knowledge of history and lore, and yet there are still so many facets about being human he has yet to learn. One of his more vexing challenges is grasping the game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Sam and Dean use it a lot for deciding who will take a certain task. Lately, the instrument has been used to determine who will sleep on the floor, as the current motel they've been staying in has been all booked up save for one room with a single bed. And now that Castiel is human, he is also subjected to the same limitations of needing sleep and food and hydration. Not to mention he is now vulnerable to injury and ailment, as his current bruised ribs are evidence of.

They shuffle in late that night, weary after a long day of investigating leads that haven't panned out. Castiel's ribs are aching, and he fishes a bottle of pain relievers out of his bag as soon as he's inside the room.

"Okay, let's do this," Dean says, and takes up position, fist extended.

Sam moves forward, and they engage in the silent count to three before shooting their hands out into different shapes. Sam scissors his fingers across Dean's flat hand.

"Every friggin' time," Dean grumbles, and heads for his sleeping bag where he's spent the past two nights already.

Sam simply smirks, and then turns to Castiel.

There are three possible configurations for this game, and though Sam seems to clearly have a strategy when it comes to beating Dean, Castiel can't begin to predict what either Winchester will come up with. He opts for scissors.

Sam makes a fist.

It takes Castiel a split moment to remember which one is the winner in this scenario, but before he can move to switch sleeping arrangements with Sam, the younger Winchester shakes his head.

"Nice play. Looks like you get the bed again."

Castiel frowns. "But I thought rock beat scissors."

"Sometimes. But since I just used the scissors on Dean's paper, they're blunt. The rock sharpened them, so they win." Sam turns to go roll out the other sleeping bag, leaving Castiel mired in confusion once more.

Why wasn't the sharpening scenario mentioned when the Winchesters first explained the rules? And if both paper and scissors would have beaten rock in that round, why ever did Sam choose to go with it? Perhaps Castiel has been starting to favor the rock himself, just as Dean and Sam seem to favor paper and scissors, and Sam was trying to cause a tie so they could go again, assuming the scissors would be restored in the second round, even without sharpening.

Castiel sighs.

This game makes no sense.


	6. Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene that was requested by Miyth a very long time ago, and I finally decided it would make a better ficlet than trying to incorporate it into a longer story.

Castiel can see the surface of the water above him, sunlight shimmering in coruscating ripples like angelic grace. He can't reach it, though. The seaweed wrapped around his vessel has been infused with the pagan goddess's power, and it paralyzes flesh as easily as his true form. Water is rapidly filling his lungs, and though he doesn't need to breathe, the pressure hurts and compresses on his chest like a vice. Darkness ebbs at the edges of his vision.

He tries to blink it back, tries to muster the strength to tear free of his bindings. Sam and Dean are still on the lakeshore, still battling the deity whose murder spree had drawn them to this case in the first place.

But his bones have been hallowed out and replaced with the weightiness of liquid mercury, and he simply floats, suspended somewhere between Earth above and the Abyss below.

Spots dance across his vision. Perhaps he is closer to human and oxygen is precious after all. He's not sure, and it frightens him. He has too much left to do, too much left to live for.

He strains against the slippery kelp, but it sways and slides along his limbs, fluidic yet unyielding. The last flurry of bubbles escapes his lips, and he watches them rise to the surface to find a freedom and release he's denied.

Of all the ends he's envisioned for himself—or actually met already—a watery grave of not-quite-dead for the rest of eternity has never entered his darkest dreams.

The sun scintillates and sparkles above him. He is a creature of the sky, and cannot reach it.

There is a thunderous crash that echoes in his ears, and the water stirs at the disturbance, icy currents kissing his cheek.

A hand wraps around his upper arm and grips it tightly. And yanks. Castiel turns his head upward into a shadowed face backlit by the blazing sun scattered across the mirrored surface.

The dark depths claw at his legs like fiends of Hell, refusing to relinquish him. The hand on his shoulder refuses to let go.

For a moment, it feels as if there can be no victor, but then a glint of a blade cuts through the water, and the seaweed squeals. Castiel feels himself rising, up and up, the water whooshing past him in an eddy of effervescent beads, like a shower of feathers, and then his head breaks the surface into crisp, shocking air.

He should suck in a grateful, desperate gasp of oxygen, but he still can't move, his limbs unresponsive as glacial poison still trickles through his veins. The hand on his shoulder doesn't leave, but another arm is brought around to hug his chest, and Castiel is tilted back as someone kicks against the water to propel them to shore.

Then he's laid out on a bed of smooth pebbles and a set of hands fold over his sternum. His body jerks with the violent thrust, then again. He sees blue sky and blurred faces and feels like he should comprehend the magnitude of this, but it escapes him for the moment.

Until another punch activates his lungs into a spasm, and water is surging up through his throat. He's rolled over as it's expelled, burning with both fire and ice.

"Easy, easy."

Castiel hacks up one last guttural heave, and then collapses on his side. Strong arms haul him up to lean him back against a warm, dry chest, his breaths shuddering in comparison to the ones bracing him. He blinks through wet lashes into the face of the one who raised him from the void.

Water is dripping from Dean's chin, his clothes waterlogged, and he's panting just as heavily.

"Cas?"

"I- I'm alright," he stutters, teeth chattering.

Dean's shoulders sag and he shakes his head. "Who would've thought angels can't swim."

Castiel wants to point out that wasn't his problem, but he's still a little dazed. He does manage a modicum of a glower.

Dean smirks. "Just be thankful I didn't have to give you the kiss of life."

Dean's tone is light and joking, but Castiel can only stare at him. Because this mortal man gave him so much more than that. From the moment Castiel gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition, he was lost.

From darkness into light.


	7. Take These Broken Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a ficlet. But it's twice as long as one. Oops. Still posting it in this collection, though, because that was where I intended to put it.
> 
> For snovolovac

 

Cas slouches.

It's an idle thought that crosses Sam's mind late one afternoon when he's waiting for the latest digitized lore books to upload to the cloud he'd set up for the Men of Letters archives. It's a big file and so it's taking a while, which is how Sam's attention ended up wandering.

Cas is sitting at the other end of the study table, reading. His posture is more than just being bowed over his book, though. There's a drag to his shoulders that seems like weariness, except angels don't get tired, and Cas has had his own grace back for a while, so that's not an issue.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Cas briefly looks up with a quirked brow. "Of course."

Of course.

Sam files the observation away as a random occurrence.

Until a few days later when Cas shuffles into the kitchen one morning, his steps measured and deliberate in a way that speaks of controlled discomfort rather than the angel's initial rigidity when he'd first come to Earth. Sam leans back against the counter and furrows his brow as he considers his friend. But even though there's a prominent slump in Cas's carriage, Sam can't really make more of it than that. Maybe the angel has just learned bad habits.

Cas offers to pour him some coffee, and Sam lets it go.

But now it's bugging him, and Sam finds himself watching more carefully whenever Cas is around. It's not just the slouching. The lines around Cas's mouth tighten when he walks. Sometimes he rolls his shoulder and winces. He doesn't quite stand as close to Dean as he used to. Or to anyone.

It takes an angry angel attacking them for Sam to get it, and he's kicking himself for being so dense. The angel had flared its grace in preparation to smite, shadows of broken wings cast across the wall. Dean had quickly dispatched it with a banishing sigil, and made a glib comment about the wingless dicks bouncing off the gates of Heaven.

Wingless.

"Dean," Sam sputters. "When's the last time you saw the shadows of Cas's wings?"

Dean's face scrunches up in confusion. "I don't know. A while. Why?"

Sam just gives his brother a pointed look and flicks his gaze at the space the rogue angel had just been standing in. To his credit, Dean's expression slackens in understanding.

Sam wants to talk to Cas about it when they get home. Dean has other ideas.

"It's not like he'd give us a straight answer," Dean grouses as he rummages through the Impala's trunk for some glasses.

Sam sighs. His brother has a point. And part of him does want to see for himself, because Cas  _does_  downplay things when it comes to his own well-being. Sam tells himself they're doing this to help their friend, as justification for what is about to be a blatant invasion of privacy.

They both walk into the bunker wearing the two pairs of eyeglasses treated with holy fire. If the spectacles give them the ability to see the unearthly, it isn't a far cry to assume that includes angel wings.

"Cas?" Dean calls.

A moment later, Cas comes out from the hallway. "How was the hunt?" he asks.

Neither of them answer. Sam, for his part, is frozen in place. He's seen the shadows of Cas's wings only once, one night outside a motel room when Cas, Raphael, and Balthazar had a Mexican stand-off right in front of them. Sam suspects that was the last time Dean saw Cas's wings. They had been big and bold, arching up behind him like poised weapons all on their own.

Cas's wings look nothing like that now. Granted, he's not posturing, but they're not even folded behind him like Sam might expect. No, they're hanging. Bony appendages that don't seem able to hold themselves up. There's barely any plumage on them, and what feathers there are look ragged and full of gaps. The primaries along the tips are  _dragging_  across the floor.

And suddenly it all makes sense.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath.

Cas cants his head in confusion at them. "Why are you both wearing glasses?"

Sam rips them off. He's seen what he set out to, and anymore would be insensitive gawking.

He can't un-see it, though.

"Cas," he breathes. "Your wings…"

Cas frowns. "What about them?"

"They're broken," Dean blurts, and Sam rues his brother's lack of tact. Dean hasn't even taken off the glasses.

Cas's brows furrow in confusion as he studies them, and then realization and shock cross his face, which starts to pink. Sam can't see the wings anymore, but the way Cas shifts his shoulders, he can imagine the angel is trying to hide them behind his back.

"The glasses…?" Cas asks, voice coarse.

"Yeah," Sam admits. "Scorched in holy fire allows us to see hellhounds with them. And I guess angel wings too…"

Cas ducks his gaze toward the floor. "Please take them off, Dean."

Sam shoots his brother a withering look, but Dean does remove them.

"Shit, Cas. Why didn't you tell us?"

"I told you I lost my wings."

"You didn't tell us they looked like that."

Cas's jaw tightens, and he rolls his shoulder again. Sam wonders how much pain that causes him. Has been causing him.

"You weren't supposed to see them," Cas says gruffly.

Sam takes a step forward, but stops. "Do they hurt?"

Cas doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

"You could have told us, man," Dean says heatedly, because his worry always comes out abrasive.

"There was no point," Cas replies. "My wings are broken. All the angels' wings are broken."

"We could have looked for something to fix it," Dean presses.

Cas gives them a sad look. "There isn't anything to be done about them."

He flicks a mortified look at the glasses in their hands, and then turns to swiftly leave the room. Sam doesn't need the glasses to imagine the wings dragging behind Cas; he can see it in his friend's bearing. Can recall the way it's been steadily getting worse.

Sam isn't going to accept it.

He dives into the archives and doesn't come back out until he's found something. There aren't any spells for angel wings, but there are rituals for cleansing and healing. Sam thinks he can combine them for the purpose he needs. After all, the Men of Letters had created their own spells; why couldn't Sam?

Cas has been avoiding him and Dean, and Sam suspects the angel is embarrassed, though he shouldn't be. Sam tracks him down in his room and presents his idea. He knows it probably won't restore Cas's ability to fly. But if it could ease some of his pain, then it's worth it to try.

Cas gapes at him in disbelief, uncertainty, and barely veiled hope.

And accepts.


	8. And Learn To Fly Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspected I might have to write a follow-up to the previous chapter, and 29Pieces did request a version where the boys use the hellhound glasses to see Cas's wings restored, so here it is. ^_^

"You ready?" Sam asks.

"Yes," Cas replies where he's kneeling, bare chested, on the floor in the middle of a painted rune, though his voice wavers slightly.

What they're about to do has never been tested before, but Sam's done the research, been over all the magic books in the bunker's archive and the various healing and cleansing spells on record. He's also reviewed the documented processes the Men of Letters used when developing their own spells.

Sam's confident in the ritual he's put together.

He pours a few drops of lavender oil into the bowl of ingredients he's mixed—mostly herbs and other essences of pure origin. An angel feather. Not one from Cas's currently damaged wings, but from the stash the Winchesters had gradually accumulated ever since an angel had started riding around in the backseat of the Impala and small down feathers would be left on the floor or between the leather of the seats.

Sam lights a sage stick and sets it on a plate. The aroma of smoke and burnt grass wafts up to fill the room. He hasn't actively integrated the Native American ritual of smudging into his spell, but figures it can't hurt, help purify the entire space. Cas takes a deep breath, and his shoulders relax a fraction.

Sam picks up the bowl and walks around behind the angel, mindful of where he steps. Though the wings are incorporeal, he can't rid himself of the image of massive, skeletal wingspans hanging down behind Cas, tattered feathers dragging across the floor. Sam has to pause to take his own breath and clear his head.

"Okay, here we go."

He dips his fingers in the mixture and begins to utter one of the incantations that summons up healing energy. He's changed the words, tailored them to this one specific purpose. His fingertips tingle, and he holds his hand out where he thinks Cas's wings are. Oil drips down…and lands on something invisible mid-air. Cas sucks in a sharp breath.

Sam's stomach clenches with anxiety, but he presses on, reciting the strings of Latin carefully and slowly. The air wobbles and bends, refracted bands of light suddenly filling the space in front of him as ripples of golden energy trickle over the contours of a limp wing. It doesn't materialize, so Sam can't see exactly what is happening, but he holds tight to his confidence and intent, infusing his will into the spell, envisioning his friend healed.

He moves slowly over the shimmering mirage, trailing warmth and light across bony grooves and sparse plumes. Cas bows his head forward and doesn't make a sound. Sam can't tell if the process is hurting him. He hopes not.

When Sam has run his hand over the last primary, he stops the low chant and takes a step back, sets the bowl on the desk. "Cas?"

Cas lifts his head, eyes blinking as though dazed. He glances over his shoulder and stares.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks worriedly.

Cas carefully rises from the floor. He rolls his shoulders. "I am," he says, sounding stunned. His gaze slides to the hellhound glasses on the table. "You can look."

Sam hesitates, knowing how embarrassed Cas was by the state of his wings, but he'd also like to know for sure whether what he'd done has helped at all. Sam picks the glasses up and puts them on. His breath steals from his lungs.

Cas's wings are arched up behind him, like those shadows Sam had seen so long ago. There are still gaps between some of the feathers, but the bones and muscles look strong, and the feathers that are still there are no longer raggedy and bent, but a shiny obsidian that seem silky if Sam had the wherewithal to reach out and touch them. Maybe it's the tinge of the lenses, but there are iridescent streaks of cerulean and beryl green throughout the feathers.

"Thank you, Sam," Cas says. "What you've given me… I- I don't know how I can ever…"

Sam moves forward and draws Cas into a hug. His mouth twitches as the wings give a small flutter. "That's what family does."

Cas brings his arms up to hug back.

Sam roves his gaze over the gaps in the wings. "I'm sorry I couldn't fix them completely."

Cas pulls back abruptly to give him an astonished look. "You did more than I thought possible." He cants his head over his shoulder in consideration. "And…because of what you did, I believe there might be a chance that they'll continue to heal on their own. That new feathers might grow in."

Sam perks up at that. It wasn't a miracle fix, but then, he hadn't gone into this expecting one. The most he'd hoped to accomplish was to ease his friend's pain, and he's succeeded. And now, with time, there's a chance Cas could still get his wings back. There's a chance he can be whole again.

Which is all Sam wants for his family.


	9. For everyone who needs a hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous user on tumblr who was having a bad day asked for Cas to get a hug.

Castiel stood at the edge of the park, contemplating the human need for physical contact, specifically the custom of giving and receiving hugs. He'd learned how to engage in that behavior. Sam was actually the one who first taught him how to reciprocate a friendly embrace, and as time had gone on, Castiel had adopted the gesture more and more. Until he'd somehow gone from imitating the custom to enjoying it…to craving it.

Such physical contact didn't exist among angels. Not that any of Castiel's siblings wouldn't rather greet him with the pointed end of an angel blade.

But while he'd observed many humans openly and freely doling out such hearty embraces, the Winchesters were not ones to do likewise. Not unless a great length of time had passed between seeing each other, or someone had come back from the brink of death.

Perhaps those moments of intense emotion and fear had increased Castiel's yearning for such  _human_  reassurances, but he found himself longing for it nonetheless. Especially in this moment, though he couldn't say why. There hadn't been a catastrophe, or a near-death experience. Things were relatively calm, actually. They'd just finished up a simple case, and the Winchesters were currently wrapping things up with the local police. So why did Castiel feel this inexplicable, overwhelming sense of loneliness?

A large shadow joined his on the sidewalk as Sam came to stand beside him. "Everything okay?"

"Yes," Castiel replied. Or, no, but he didn't know how to explain why not.

Sam was silent for a beat. "You sure?"

Castiel furrowed his brow. "I've been counting how many hugs I've seen people give each other," he said instead.

Sam quirked an odd look at him, then glanced out at the busy park. "Um, okay."

"These people are very casual about the gesture," Castiel went on. "They hug in greeting, and in farewell. One child suspended his play so he could run over to give his mother a hug, and then went back to the swings."

Sam's brows rose dubiously, and he looked as though he regretted walking over.

Castiel turned toward him. "You and Dean only express such outward displays of affection after one of you nearly dies."

Sam shrugged. "Huh, yeah, I guess. I mean, you know Dean. No chick flick moments."

Castiel squinted. "But don't you ever…want one? A hug, I mean. It's a sign of friendship and care. And not just when someone's about to die."

Sam regarded him for a long moment. "Yeah, sure. Sometimes. I mean, I don't say anything."

Castiel nodded, and returned his attention to the humans in the park. "No, people don't ask for hugs."

They could ask for food and shelter, and anything else they might need, but not that. Castiel didn't understand why.

He could feel Sam's gaze boring into him, which was making Castiel uncomfortable. He rolled his shoulder. "We should get back to the car before Dean grows impatient."

As he turned to go, Sam reached out to grab his arm, and then the younger Winchester was pulling Castiel into an embrace. The surprise caught him off guard so much, he almost forgot he was supposed to hug back. But reflex took over, and Castiel raised his arms to cling to Sam, soaking in the contact he'd so desperately wanted. He felt better when they pulled apart.

Even so, Castiel asked, "What was that for?"

Sam gave him a small smile. "A sign of friendship and care. When nobody's dying."

Castiel's eyes softened. "Thank you."


	10. Wounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way longer than a "ficlet" should be, but I wrote it with the intention of it being one, so here is where I post it.

Dean stands on one side of the room, antiseptic wipes and bandages held idly in his hands. Next to him, Sam's got rags and the suture kit, but he doesn't move, either, and throws a questioning look at Dean. Like he knows how to handle this.

Cas is huddled in the far corner, pressed against the wall with his knees drawn in. His coat and suit jacket are torn and stained with blood. It took a lot of effort to get him from the Impala to the motel room, but after that he had pushed himself away from any assistance and has burrowed in, closing himself off.

Shaking his head, Dean tries approaching again, cautiously. He hadn't gotten a good response the first time.

"Don't," Cas growls, and Dean halts. He grinds his teeth in frustration, yet somehow manages to keep a calm exterior.

"You don't look so good, man," he says gently. "Why don't you let me and Sam patch you up?"

"I said no." Cas shoots him a murderous glare.

Dean doesn't back down. He never would have imagined he'd find himself in this situation. Cas usually heals up pretty quickly from injuries. But these had been dealt by demons who had held Cas captive for days before the Winchesters just  _happened_  to find him while chasing Apocalypse omens. Dean gets the feeling that if it weren't for how badly Cas is hurt, he would have flitted off already to nurse his wounds by himself.

The dark mass tucked behind Cas shifts, and the angel bites back a strangled sound. That's another thing Dean is having trouble wrapping his head around. Bunched up as they are in the dim light of the motel room, the wings don't look so dissimilar from the shadows Dean once saw in a barn a year ago. But the tattered feathers scraping the floor are obvious, as is the gash high up on the shoulder. There's a dark smear on the wall from where they've been pressed for the past half hour.

Dean throws a look at Sam for help, but his brother just fidgets uncertainly where he stands, brow creased with concern. Dean sighs.

"Cas…"

Cas flinches away from him, his dilated pupils flashing dangerously. He has never looked so  _not_  human as he does now. Granted, Cas isn't human, but Dean's used to thinking of him as a nerdy guy with super powers. The wings, however, and the current, feral disposition makes Dean's perceptions shift. Cas is more like a wounded animal right now. And he needs help, whether he wants it or not.

Dean slowly lowers himself to the floor, putting himself on the same eye level. "Why are your wings visible?" he asks. He thinks that's part of the problem, part of the reason Cas has turned so hostile toward them. To confirm it, the black appendages ruffle as they try to fold tighter against Cas's back.

"The demons had a spell," Cas replies, voice coarse with gravel. "Don't touch them."

Dean holds his hands up where Cas can see them, still clutching the first aid supplies. "They're bleeding," he tries to reason with the angel.

Cas makes a garbled noise, face scrunching up. "They'll heal on their own," he spits.

"When?"

Cas doesn't answer. Dean takes a breath, trying to remain collected and understanding. It's hard, though, because Cas is bleeding all over, and insisting he's fine is stupid.

"We just wanna help," Sam speaks up.

"Then leave me alone."

"Can't do that," Dean says, matching his brother's soft tone. "You're hurt, and we do not turn away from friends who need help."

Cas's eyes are dark and glassy when he jerks his gaze toward him, and Dean gets it, understands the tension and terror he sees there. But there's also more, something on the verge of a different kind of fear and trepidation. Cas has never been wounded like this, not that Dean has seen. And he's cut off from Heaven, his mojo running low. Maybe he can't heal himself like usual. And there's no other angel in Heaven or Earth who would help him.

"Cas, do you trust me?"

Cas is silent, but something in his expression wavers. "I can't put them back on the ethereal plane yet," he mumbles.

"That's fine," Dean says carefully. It's clear they're making Cas feel vulnerable and exposed. "Because they look like they could use some patching up."

"We'll be careful," Sam adds, still staying on the far side of the room. "Please, let us help."

Cas's eyes shimmer with indecision. Dean doesn't move from where he's squatting on the floor, afraid of spooking the angel when they finally seem to be making some headway.

Finally, Cas gives a very slow, very measured nod. He still eyes Dean like he's a cobra, even with the permission, and Dean takes great care to not make any sudden movements and to keep his hands where Cas can see them as he inches closer. He coaxes Cas into uncurling and letting him see the wounds better. There's an assortment of lacerations and burns. Some are going to need stitches and that won't be fun. Dean thinks about giving Cas some whiskey, but it would probably take a whole bottle just to make him tipsy.

Sam takes several long seconds to eventually join them, getting down on his knees as well. Cas is coiled like a spring, but doesn't snap as they gently and methodically check over his wounds, applying antiseptic where they can reach. This is going to be a bigger task than either of them had realized, complicated further by the inability to get Cas's coat and shirt off, not with the wings protruding out the back of the fabric.

"Will you let us do the wings first?" Dean asks. "Maybe after they get patched up, you'll be able to put them back?"

Cas's eyes narrow a fraction, but he doesn't say anything, just shifts to half turn toward them. His jaw his tight, though, as are the white knuckles gripping his knees. But if there was ever a sign of trust between them, this is it.

Dean hesitantly reaches out to touch one wing, but pauses. He starts talking, keeping his voice low and level, telling Cas everything he's about to do before he does it—where he's going to touch, when he's going to use the antiseptic which might sting. The wing twitches, but Cas doesn't turn on them. He's a lion with a thorn in his paw- er, wing, and Dean is the mouse trying to pull it out.

Patching up an injury has never taken this long, yet Dean doesn't rush. He knows he can't, not this time. So he takes it painstakingly slow. Sam doesn't scooch forward to examine the other wing, but settles for handing Dean the various first aid items as he needs them.

Cas doesn't say a word. Sometimes he sucks in a harsh breath or hisses, but other than that, he barely moves. It's weird for Dean to drone on like this, narrating his well-rehearsed movements. He's more used to telling a random story, or trying to make casual conversation to keep the patient's mind off the pain. But that won't work with Cas.

"I've got three more stitches to put in, then I'll tie it off."

Cas shudders with the nip and tuck.

Finally, Dean finishes. "I don't think I can bandage it," he admits. "But the stitches should hold if you don't exert it. I guess that means no flying for a bit. You'll have to ride around in the Impala with us."

Cas doesn't respond. Dean didn't really expect him to. There's a sharp intake of breath, and then the wings shimmer before disappearing completely. Cas slumps forward against the wall.

Sam looks at Dean in bewilderment.

"How you doin', buddy?" Dean asks.

Cas inhales again. "I'm…alright," he says, and sounds nothing like the being that was on the verge of violence several minutes ago.

"Think you can move to the bed? It'd be more comfortable for us to check over your other wounds."

Cas turns his head and pries his eyes open. "Very well," he says so softly that Dean almost doesn't hear him. The wild animal is gone, and now it's just Cas, the nerdy guy who stoically endures discomfort without complaint.

But Dean's not likely to forget what's simmering just beneath the surface, the wild, untamed creature. He'd seen the dead demons in that warehouse. Even bound and tortured, Cas had still managed to kill off half of his captors before Dean and Sam had even arrived.

As he tends the rest of Castiel's wounds, Dean has to remind himself that just because he'd become friends with an angel, did not make that angel tame.


	11. Teachable Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was from Tempest_Raining.

It's not often Dean gets the chance to teach Cas something. They  _are_  busy with the Apocalypse. But every once in a while an opportunity presents itself. Like when Bobby hosts a hunter gathering at his house to discuss the various omens that are cropping up across the country. But after the business talk is over and the beers are popped open, someone suggests a game of cards, and Dean jumps at it.

He sits Cas at the table with the group of five and explains the rules. The other guys exchange subtly eager looks; everyone loves a fresh mark. After tossing in one dollar each as an ante—Dean covering Cas's portion—they sit back and deal the first hand. Cas's face is stoically blank as usual, and Dean figures the guy probably won't have a tell. But after the next deal, Cas frowns at the cards in his hand.

"That's not what I was aiming for," he says.

Dean rolls his eyes as the other guys smirk. "Cas, you're not supposed to give your hand away."

Cas squints at him. "I didn't."

More snickers.

"Letting us know you didn't get what you were hoping for is giving it away," Dean explains.

Cas just stares at him, and Dean shakes his head. His own hand isn't bad—a full house. He bets five chips. Two of the men fold. The other guy calls, and so does Cas, and Dean thinks he should have explained knowing when to quit. Except backing down isn't exactly the angel's style.

"Hey, he even good for this?" the remaining player asks suspiciously.

Dean waves a dismissive hand. Cas probably has Jimmy's wallet with some cash. And if not, Dean will cover it. This is a good lesson, after all.

Besides, it's the final round, and Dean's pretty confident in his cards.

Cas cants his head toward the pot in the middle of the table. "And the goal is to win everything, yes?"

"Yeah, but—"

Cas pushes all of his chips forward. "Bet."

Dean sighs while the other hunter snorts, and lays his cards out as he calls, rapping his knuckles on the table. He's got a flush, and Dean grins because full house wins. But then Cas lays out his cards, all diamonds, eight through queen. Dean gapes at them.

"What the- that's a straight flush."

Cas quirks a look at him. "I know." He sweeps an arm out to brush the entire pot toward him.

Dean continues to sputter. "But, you said…"

Cas meets his gaze and deadpans, "That I didn't get what I was aiming for. I wanted a royal flush, seeing as how that's the top hand. This one is sufficient, though."

The other hunter pushes away from the table with a scowl. Sam's in the corner, chuckling into his beer. Dean is still mildly stunned. Cas's eyes momentarily glint with smugness.

Dean leans back in his chair. Well, he got schooled.


	12. I Need You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I didn't have any more SPN at the moment, but this ficlet just happened. XD For helianthus21, based on wanting some dialogue from Lilo and Stitch 2 to be said by Dean to Cas: "I kept saying how I needed you. But you needed me more." And I couldn't help myself but to go ahead and write it.

Getting Lucifer out of Cas isn't as easy as it should have been. Not that evicting the Devil is  _easy_ , but Cas didn't even  _try_  to pitch in on his end. Chuck had to step in—and how nice of the deadbeat to do something,  _for once_. And all it took to stop Amara was a little family sit-down to air some grievances and begin the process toward reconciliation. Playing Dr. Phil for two cosmic beings is not something Dean ever wants to do again.

Except, there's one celestial entity who still needs an intervention.

Dean stands under the canopy of trees outside the bunker and watches Cas stand at the edge of the woodland, gazing at the sky. There's a despondent slump in his posture, a heaviness Dean can feel just looking at him.

Several long minutes tick by, and Dean begins to wonder if Cas might just stay there and let the world spin on without him. He imagines the grass and bramble growing up around the angel, until eons pass and he slowly turns to stone.

Dean shakes the vision off, and finally moves forward, not aiming to be quiet, letting his heavy footfalls crunch dry leaves underfoot. Cas doesn't react, just keeps staring.

"Hey," Dean says, voice hoarser than he'd like. He clears his throat softly. "Ready to come inside?"

Cas doesn't look at him, but his shoulders drag down an inch further. "What do you need?" he asks tonelessly.

Dean frowns. A lot of things spring to mind in response to that.

I need you to be okay.

I need you to be here.

I need you.

He doesn't say any of that, though. He studies the dark circles and the hollowness in his best friend's eyes, thinks about Cas saying yes to Lucifer— _Lucifer_ —of glazed expressions reflecting light from the TV and red-rimmed pupils, broken, in a dingy warehouse.

_"I need you back in the game."_

Cas wasn't ready. Deep down, Dean had known that, but he'd pushed. He always pushes. He buckles down and he keeps on grinding because he convinces himself there are bigger problems and the world is on the verge of falling apart. And if he can keep it together, he can keep everything else together as well—including himself.

Cas learned from the best.

Dean's let the silence go on too long, and Cas finally sighs and turns toward the bunker. Dean reaches a hand out to snag his elbow and stop him.

"I kept saying how I needed you," he says solemnly.

Cas squints at him. "I know."

"But you needed me more."

Cas breaks eye contact. Dean remembers with a pang the days when the angel wouldn't do that.

He swallows against a lump in his throat. "Sometimes me and Sam have got so much going on that…we forget about everyone else. But you're always there. You're the best friend we've ever had."

Cas still won't meet his gaze. He shifts like he wants to break away.

Dean pulls him into a tight embrace, holding on for dear life. That's what it feels like—his friend's life on the line. Lucifer may be gone, but things are not okay. Haven't been for a while.

"You're our brother, Cas," Dean says in his ear. "And I want you to know that."

"Dean—"

"No." He squeezes harder, trying to communicate everything he means through sheer will and presence, since words have never been clear enough in the past. "Whatever  _you_  need, I'm here. I'm here this time, I swear. You're family, and whatever it takes, I am not going to let you drown in this."

He holds on, chick flick moment be damned. He's done losing people he cares about. He's done with Cas throwing himself on grenades out of a desire to be useful. He's done letting himself be blind to it.

After a long moment, Cas slowly lifts his arms to hug back.

"Thank you," he whispers, barely audible, but Dean hears.

And when Cas starts to shake and the angel drops his forehead on Dean's shoulder, Dean lets him. Cas needs him, and he's not letting go.


	13. Sam's Woes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scenario was a prompt from Miyth like two years ago (!). Uh, better late than never?

"You know, most people would say 'thank you' for saving their life."

"Oh, you mean thanks for ruining my shot and nearly getting killed instead?"

Cas huffed. "The werewolf couldn't kill me."

"Then explain why a towel is currently keeping your guts from falling out," Dean snapped.

Sam lifted his eyes to the ceiling, asking someone, anyone, for patience.

"Dean, hold still," he muttered, threaded needle in hand as he attempted to stitch up the gash in his brother's thigh. If Cas didn't heal up by the time Sam was done, the angel would be next.

Dean slumped back in the motel chair with a scowl, his leg propped up on the foot of the bed Cas was currently laid out on. Sam leaned closer and tried to focus on making the nips and tucks as neat as possible.

"It's much easier for me to recover from a wound like this than you," Cas said imperiously.

"Well, maybe if you didn't exhaust your mojo pulling stupid stunts, you could just heal me when I get clawed up by a werewolf," Dean retorted.

Cas shot him a scathing look. "Maybe you should try avoiding getting clawed up in the first place."

Dean surged upright, but Sam shoved him back down. "Dude, the sooner I finish your stitches, the sooner I can start on Cas's."

Dean sank back, grumbling.

"Sam, I don't—"

"Like hell you don't," Dean cut off the angel.

Sam bit his tongue and wished he could be anywhere else. But neither his brother or friend were capable of walking at the moment, and they were just as likely to kill each other as patch up their wounds.

Sam tied off the last stitch in Dean's leg and then bandaged it with gauze. He then picked up the suture kit and moved to the bed where Cas was pale and sweaty, his abdomen tightly wrapped in a hasty tourniquet that had a nice red stain seeping through. Sam braced himself as he moved the towel. The gouges weren't gushing blood, but they definitely had not started healing. With grim resignation, he threaded a new needle and opened a wipe to clean the area with.

"Sam, really, I'll be—"

"Nope," Sam interrupted calmly before Dean could go off on a tirade again. "I'm stitching this up. No argument."

Cas thunked his head back against the wall with an exasperated sigh. Sam almost snorted. Despite the sobering nature of Cas and Dean's injuries, he was the one people should feel sorry for right now. At least the bickering had died down while he stitched up the massive lacerations the wolf's claws had wrought on Cas's torso. And Sam didn't care if Cas would 'heal eventually'; the angel was obviously in pain.

Sam was exhausted by the time he finished. Coupled with the hunt itself and adrenaline, he was ready to sleep for eight hours.

Dean gave Cas a pointed glare. "You know, most people would say 'thank you' to the guy who just stitched him up."

"It wasn't even necessary."

"It wasn't  _necessary_  to jump in front of me."

"Clearly, since you came charging in and got injured anyway."

Sam shuffled over to the second bed and plopped down on it, covering his face with his arm and groaning. It went unnoticed. Sam had half a mind to just leave them here and go get another room. But it was painfully clear that those two were utterly incapable of taking care of themselves. Which left it all up to Sam.

He flipped over and let out a bemoaning sigh into the pillow.


	14. Untitled (late season 13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "ficlet" got kinda long. But I was just really in the mood for Jack and Cas teaming up as a power duo.

The battle is fierce and bloody. It's not like when Jack took out the small cohorts of angel armies before. Michael leads this squadron, and their numbers are far greater than any that Jack has faced before. Still, he annihilates his enemies with burning ferocity, disintegrating them into ash.

He has to be careful, though. He's fighting with allies this time. Castiel, the archangel Gabriel…and Lucifer. They are united with single purpose in defending their world from the tyranny of this universe's Michael, though that is where their reluctant allegiance ends. Jack has spent some time with his father recently, and it has left him confused and unfocused. Severe liabilities given their current circumstances.

Despite having two archangels on their side, Lucifer and Gabriel are quickly burning through their already diminished grace. Both could only pull off a few fireworks before they had to resort to fighting with angel blades like Castiel.

Jack has no such limitations, yet he finds a strange beauty as he gets to see Castiel fighting for the first time. The angel is like water, flowing from one move to the next. He can parry a blow and twist away to strike another in seamless dexterity. Michael's war-honed soldiers are like blunt instruments in comparison. For a moment, Jack wishes he could fight like that.

Three angels come swooping down from the sky toward him, and Jack's eyes flare as he shoots a palm up. They don't even have a chance to scream.

There's a crack of lightning and sizzle, followed by Gabriel's shout of alarm. Jack whirls.

Castiel's blade is locked with none other than Michael's. He tries to slide the celestial steel free, but Michael is stronger. The archangel grabs Castiel's sword arm and cranks it till there's a snap. Castiel grunts, and drops his blade to his other hand. Yet before he can strike, Michael slams his pommel into the side of Castiel's head. Once, twice. With the third, Castiel drops to his knees.

Rage erupts in Jack, and he raises a blazing hot palm. But Michael fists a hand in Castiel's hair and yanks his head back as he places the blade to Castiel's throat. Jack freezes.

"Well, if this isn't a nice little family reunion," Michael says. "Did you come back for your whelp, Lucifer?"

Castiel shifts his gaze to meet Jack's, blood streaming down the sides of his face. "Jack, do it."

Jack can feel his power brimming just under the surface, ready to explode. He's certain he can kill Michael with a concentrated enough blow. But he holds it in. If he unleashes it, the wave will hit Castiel and kill him too.

Michael's expression is hard as granite. "Yeah, go ahead, Jack. You've gotten plenty of others killed in your little campaign of self-righteousness. What's one more?"

Castiel's eyes turn sorrowful, but he speaks calmly and assuringly, "It's okay, Jack."

Jack lowers his hand a fraction.  _No_ …

Lucifer steps close to him and hisses in his ear, "Strike now while we have the chance!"

Jack's trembling. He can feel Lucifer's rage radiating around him, hell-bent on vengeance. Gabriel stands a short distance away, looking torn. The rest of the angels have stopped attacking their position, but Jack can hear the sounds of gunfire from the other side of the dunes where the human resistance has dug in. Jack has the power to stop it once and for all.

But he can't. Not this way.

"Don't!" he calls out, dropping his arm and taking a step forward. "I'll surrender."

Castiel's eyes widen. "Jack, no," he gasps before Michael presses the angel blade harder against his jugular.

Lucifer grabs his arm. "Don't be stupid! Just kill him now!"

"No."

"Listen to me, you little—"

Jack wrenches his arm away. "You are not my father."

He turns back to Michael and Castiel, palms raised in surrender. "Let him go, and I'll surrender."

Michael cants his head and there's a gleam in his eyes as though he finds the situation highly amusing. "So, this one here is the chink in your armor." He drags Castiel's head back further, eliciting a strained sound from the angel.

"I said stop!"

Michael sneers. "Oh, I'll stop. Kneel before me."

Jack knows what the position of fealty stands for, though it doesn't stir the level of passion or ire he's read about or seen in films. To be on one's knees simply allows for a different vantage point. He slowly starts forward.

"Kid," Gabriel says warningly. His hand keeps flexing around the hilt of his weapon. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

Jack glances at his uncle, whom he's only just met but senses he might develop a future affection for. He's not sure how to respond. Does he know what he's doing? He knows what he wants to do. Is that the same thing? No; he knows now how arrogant and naive he'd been, thinking he could take on Michael and his armies alone. Lucifer had encouraged him, filled his head with delusions of grandeur. Jack recognized them for what they were. He'd forgotten the lessons he'd learned from the Winchesters and Castiel, from Mary and Bobby and the other humans fighting to survive in this forsaken universe.

But Jack remembers now. Family is everything. Family will have your back. Alone, he cannot hope to win, but united, Jack can achieve the victory they've  _all_  been fighting for.

He approaches Michael, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. Castiel is gazing at him, terrified and pleading. Jack tries to telegraph confidence and reassurance.

Michael smirks as he draws closer, and finally shoves Castiel to the ground and steps to the side. Jack stops a mere few feet from the archangel, and sinks to his knees, not in subservience to this monster, but in humility and meek acknowledgement that he is not the savior he'd proclaimed himself to be.

"Castiel," he says, sliding his gaze to the side. "Do you remember the first time you saved my life? I suppose I saved yours that night, too." Jack holds out his hand. "I remember it."

Castiel stares at him for a moment in confusion, but even though he doesn't seem to understand, he nevertheless reaches out to take his hand. And when Jack clasps his, he lets the floodgates open.

Blazing golden light courses through his veins and into Castiel. The angel's head snaps up as his eyes flare amber, their grace singing as one. They turn their gazes to Michael, whose expression has morphed into fury. He lifts his blade and lunges, but Castiel surges upright and catches Michael's arm mid strike. The archangel gapes at him in astonishment, and a flicker of panic cracks the contemptuous veneer.

With Castiel holding Michael at bay, Jack raises his hand and lets his power rip out in a vortex of hurricane proportions. He can feel Castiel's grace mingled with his, just like that night in a playground seemingly so long ago. Michael throws his head back and screams as fire bursts up and devours him whole.

The wave of power begins to recede, and Jack's mind disentangles from Castiel's. When they finally break physical contact, the angel sways on his knees. Jack reaches out to brace him. The bruises and abrasions are all healed.

A long, low whistle sounds behind them, and they shift to see Gabriel gawking at them.

"Well, that was somethin' else."

Jack looks over to where Lucifer stands, visibly seething.

"How can you choose him over me?" Lucifer demands, and Jack is struck by how…petty, his biological sire truly is.

Jack considers his answer, considers what he's seen of Lucifer first hand. "Because he chose me too. You…you've always chosen yourself."

"Outta the mouths of babes," Gabriel says glibly.

Lucifer's shoulders heave with mounting rage, and Jack tenses. He sees Gabriel take up a slightly defensive stance between them and Lucifer. But in the next moment, Lucifer disappears in the wake of wing beats. Jack isn't sure that's the last he'll see of the Devil, but for now, they're safe, and they've won.

"We should check on the others," Castiel says, slowly getting to his feet.

Jack nods, reaches for his father and uncle, and takes flight. He has more family to reunite.


	15. Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anonymous on tumblr and mckydstarlight. This isn't quite what you'd asked for, but it's what came to me based on your requests.
> 
> SPOILERS for 13x23 - A conversation that may have happened between Dean and Cas at that pivotal scene.

 

"Dean, no," Cas breathed.

Dean ignored him. "I am your sword," he said to Michael. "Your perfect vessel. With me you'd be stronger than you've ever been."

Michael regarded him calmly, despite the blood leaking from his eyes and ears. "Oh, I know what you are."

"If we work together, can we beat Lucifer?"

"Dean…" Cas warned.

" _Can we_?" he shouted.

Michael lifted his head. "We'd have a chance."

"Dean, you can't."

Dean whirled toward Cas, and saw the same terror he was feeling in his best friend's eyes. But it didn't matter. "Lucifer has Sam. He has Jack. Cas, I don't have a choice!" He turned back to Michael. "If we do this, it's a one-time deal. I'm in charge. You're the engine, but I'm behind the wheel. Understand?"

A small gleam entered the archangel's eyes, and he nodded.

"No," Cas growled. "I can do it. I served as an archangel's vessel once; I can do it again. My grace with Michael's will be just as strong."

Dean spun in horror. " _No_."

Cas's eyes wavered with roiling emotion. "I won't let you sacrifice yourself."

"This isn't permanent."

"You can't trust him," Cas hissed.

Dean glared over his shoulder at Michael, who was watching in what appeared to be amusement. No, he wasn't to be trusted, but as Dean had already said, he didn't have a choice.

_"No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here."_

"I'm doing this," Dean said staunchly. "I'm going to get Sam and Jack back. And you're staying here."

Cas's eyes widened, then hardened. "Dean—"

"I am not losing you again," he snapped. He wasn't going to let the Devil take  _anyone_  else from him ever again.

Cas shook his head with a growl and threw a vitriolic look at Michael. "Take me instead."

Dean grabbed Cas's shoulder and shoved him back a step. " _No_."

Michael clucked his tongue. "Well, this is a first. People fighting over the chance to be my vessel."

Dean shot him a scathing glower. "We have a deal."

And they were running out of time.

"So yes."

"Dean!"

There was a flare of blinding light, and Dean felt as though a star was exploding in his chest. Power flooded through his veins and whited out his vision for a split moment before it settled. And he felt… _weird_. Michael's presence was a niggle in the back of his mind. His blood was thrumming with grace and his senses were sharper. He let out a ragged gasp in surprise.

Cas lashed out to grip his arm. "Dean…" His eyes were wide with horror as he searched Dean's gaze.

"I'm okay."

Cas's expression pinched with distress, and Dean knew exactly what he was going to say, how he was going to insist on coming with, maybe even hitch a ride at the last second like Sam had with Lucifer.

And Dean couldn't let that happen.

His heart clenched. "I'm sorry, Cas." He reached out two fingers like he'd seen the angel do so many times, and touched his forehead. Cas instantly crumpled. Dean caught him, surprised by the angelic strength he now possessed, and carefully lowered Cas to the floor. He'd wake up in a minute. And he'd be pissed.

But he'd be safe.

_"Are you ready?"_  Michael echoed in his head.

Dean lifted his chin, feeling his wings— _wings_ —flutter in anticipation.

"Yes."


	16. Waiting

Dean sits on the dirty floor of some ramshackle cabin, heart hammering against his rib cage as he listens to the wheezing gurgles emanating from an invisible animal across the room. There's a pool of inky blood slowly seeping out in a widening pattern that tells him where the hellhound is, and its hot breath puffing out laboriously shows it's not moving. Dean shot it full of bullet holes, but the damn thing refuses to die. The rest of the pack is out there, too, probably still hunting for them. At least this one is too weak to bay for help.

Dean glances down at the angel unconscious in his arms. The trench coat and black slacks are in tatters, and his wounds are emitting a faint blue glow that's their only light in the dark. Dean doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. Though, it's not like hellhounds need a trail of grace to track their quarry. They'd gone straight for Cas like they knew he was an angel.

Blood is seeping into Dean's jeans, but he checks to make sure the pool isn't getting close to the line of goofer dust, and adjusts his hold slightly. He'd barely been able to set the protective circle, narrow though it is, and Dean isn't sure it will  _really_  hold up against an entire pack of hellhounds. But they just need to make it till dawn, and then the beasts will be drawn back to the Pit.

He just hopes Cas can hold on that long. Sam will be coming for them, but Dean isn't sure he wants his brother out there alone, either.

There's a snuffing at the open door that Dean had kicked in, followed by a creak of floorboard. The wounded hellhound whimpers. Dean stiffens as something else growls. He's faced a lot of monsters in his time, but there's nothing that truly terrifies him like that sound, and he waits for the blood-curdling howl.

The phantom hound sniffs the air loudly, and Dean can hear it stalk closer, nails clacking on the wood floor. He clings tighter to Cas.

"You can't have him."

The hellhound chuffs. Dean wishes he could reach for his gun, but he left it outside the protective ring, plus he'd emptied the magazine in the other hellhound anyway, so it'd be useless. But he can't stand sitting here, waiting to be ripped to shreds.

Saliva drips on the floor, inches from the line of goofer dust. Dean holds his breath.

And then there's the distant roar of another beast. One larger and faster. And suddenly the faint hue in the cabin isn't only coming from an angel's bleeding grace.

The hellhound snarls, followed by a yowl that makes Dean flinch violently. But there's no attack. Suddenly the other sounds are gone. There isn't even a wheeze from the dying hound, and it seems as though the oppressive auras have vanished.

Dean doesn't let go, though. "Hang on, Cas," he whispers. "We're getting out of here."

The Impala crests the hill on the shards of the rising sun.


	17. Shiver

Castiel never used to hate the cold. There was no reason to hate something which had no power over him. He could stand on a snow-capped mountain's highest peak and feel the biting nip of sub-zero temperatures as nothing more than a curious tickle.

Now, though, the cold burrows deep into his marrow, and no amount of layering can keep out the chill. The problem is that it's not just the outer cold he has to contend with, but the inner one as well. There's a vacuum where his grace used to be, a black hole that steals the warmth from his now mortal blood and leaves him desperately chasing down the slightest relief.

Which seems impossible during the winter. The bunker is well-insulated, and one would have expected that the weight of the earth resting atop it would create a cocoon of warmth, but the stone walls are cold and somehow unforgiving.

Leaving to go on hunts is a little better. Castiel can curl up in the backseat against the window and let the sun's rays soak into his skin. And for a few hours here and there, the cold is beaten back.

But when it's time to interview victims and witnesses, he has to shed his bulky layers for his suit. He doesn't even have the trench coat anymore, a loss he still laments on some level, though it's silly for him to do so.

This latest case is in Montana, where it's snowing. Castiel watches the gray sky with mistrust and wariness. They have to go out to the cemetery to salt and burn some bones, which of course has to be done at night. Castiel is dreading it.

But he makes the trek without complaint. Digging up a grave helps create heat, but when the ghost attacks, Castiel is thrown into a snow drift. Dean bashes the specter with an iron crowbar while Sam scrambles to toss the lighter in the grave. The bones go up with a whoosh, and the ghost shrieks.

Castiel pushes himself to his feet. His clothes are damp, soaking through in some places. He hobbles back to the edge of the grave to get as close to the roaring flames as he can.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

No, he's not. But he's not injured, and that's really what Dean is asking, so Castiel nods. He doesn't dare speak for fear his teeth will chatter, and he sidles ever closer to the edge. The fire's heat is fleeting, a teasing kiss against his cheeks before the snow around them snatches it away. Castiel just wants to leave.

They gather up their supplies and shuffle back to the Impala. Castiel hopes Dean will turn on the heat when they start driving.

He does, but it's not enough. It's never enough.

Castiel curls in on himself against the door and watches the night scape. Snow flurries scurry horizontally across the window. Somehow, he dozes off, because the next thing he knows, he startles awake at the sound of the back door opening and a gust of chilled air. He blinks rapidly to find they've stopped at a gas station.

Sam slides into the other side of the backseat and quickly shuts the door. He's holding a to-go cup, and Castiel can see the steam wafting up through the small hole in the lid. The earthy aroma of coffee perks him up a little more.

Sam gives him a sympathetic smile and holds out the cup. "Here."

Castiel accepts it almost greedily, wrapping his cold fingers around the curve and letting out a breath as heat seeps into his digits. "Thank you."

He takes a tentative sip. As much as he wants to down the entire thing, he's learned the hard way about burning one's tongue. The coffee is on the hotter side, enough to shock his mouth, but not enough to scald. He takes a longer swallow.

Sam reaches into his jacket. "I got you something else." He pulls out a fleece beanie and hands it over.

Castiel takes it gingerly. It's a futile gesture, but a touching one. "Thank you." He sets the coffee cup between his knees and pulls the beanie on, tugging it down over his ears. It's snug and warm, and at least comfortable.

Sam's expression is both pleased and sad, and he pats Castiel's knee before getting out and moving back to the front seat.

When Dean returns, he makes a joke about the beanie, but Castiel ignores it. Sam shoots him his patented "bitch-face" anyway.

Turns out they're almost back to the bunker, and the cup of coffee tides Castiel over until then. Once there, he immediately goes to his room to get a change of clothes, taking them down the hall to throw them in the dryer for a few minutes before putting them on.

As he's taking them out, he turns to find Dean leaning against the door frame, arms crossed and watching him with a pensive purse to his mouth.

"You're really that cold?" he asks. "This isn't just some exaggerated overreaction to suddenly being human?"

Castiel ducks his gaze. He'd figured Dean would think it was that, and he was hoping that he would eventually adjust. He gathers his clothes in his arms and hugs them close, willing the heat to absorb into his chest and just  _stay_.

When he doesn't answer, Dean stalks over and somewhat roughly presses a palm to Castiel's forehead. His eyes narrow a fraction, and he reaches for Castiel's hand next. Dean's mouth turns down.

"It is exaggerated," Castiel mumbles. "I was an angel."

Dean doesn't say anything, and eventually the silence becomes too uncomfortable, and Castiel awkwardly veers around him and retreats to his room.

But that night, there's a sleeping bag left just inside his door. Castiel would have thought it odd, but on a whim, he unzips it all the way and wraps himself in it like a cocoon. It's much more insulating than the thinner blankets.

And the day after that, Sam gives him a box of hand warmers. Castiel stuffs his pockets with them. Some get up to 102 degrees, enough to heat right through his layers and almost burn his skin in some places. He doesn't mind.

Dean starts cooking more stews, meals with hot broth. Sam buys Castiel a space heater for his room.

None of it fully banishes the cold, but it helps. And little by little, his body remembers what it's like to feel warm. It gives him hope.


	18. A Light In the Dark

The flashlight is flickering. Sam snatches it up from the ledge where he'd set it and clutches it tightly, as if he can somehow channel his body's natural electrical current into sustaining the beam.

Of course, batteries don't work that way.

The flashlight gives a few more sputters before winking out entirely, plunging Sam into complete darkness. He swallows hard and takes a breath. Losing his head isn't going to help him, or his trapped companion.

He lowers himself to the ground and inches over toward where he knows Cas is lying, the angel's legs pinned underneath the rocks from when the cave ceiling collapsed on top of them. He can't fly himself out.

They'd come out here in search of an ancient relic that might help them in the fight against Lucifer and the Apocalypse. The warding Cas sensed inside the tunnel should have been their first clue that this was a bad idea, but they'd kept on.

And ran into a very nasty, very angry creature. It had knocked Sam and Dean across the chamber like they were gnats. Even Cas had taken a hit before the angel apparently decided to muster the reserves of his waning power to detonate like a small bomb. Cas's directed explosion of his true form had incinerated the monster—but brought the cave down on top of them. And now he is too drained to get them out.

At least Dean had ended up on the other side of the cave-in, and had gone for help. That was hours ago, though, and Sam is trying not to panic under the oppressive darkness and close air.

He scoots across the uneven ground until he lightly bumps Cas's shoulder, and then reaches down to give it a squeeze. "How are you doing?"

"The same as the last time you asked," is the gruff reply.

Sam bites back a huff. He shouldn't hold it against the angel, who has probably never experienced being stuck and vulnerable like this before. If he wasn't cut off from Heaven, he probably could have flung the rubble off him with a wave of his hand. Or at the very least gripped Sam's arm and flown them both outside.

Instead, they're forced to wait for a rescue.

Silence hangs over them like a heavy shroud, amplifying the rhythm of Sam's breaths, growing incrementally faster the longer he sits in the dark like this. His ears strain to hear anything beyond himself. There shouldn't be any more monsters lurking in the depths of the cave, but he doesn't like the prospect of being caught unaware. He hates being helpless as much as the angel laying beside him does.

"You're afraid of the dark," Cas's gravelly voice speaks softly, startling him.

Sam blinks, his brain needing to catch up, and he furrows his brow in indignation. "What? No. It just makes it hard to try moving the rocks myself." Or be on guard against attack.

Cas is quiet for a moment. "You've become agitated since the flashlight went out."

"Yeah, because it sucks sitting in the dark," Sam snips back. He folds his legs up against his chest and glowers into the pitch surroundings. He's not afraid of the dark. He's afraid of what's  _in_  the dark. He's seen too much not to know what lurks in the shadows. Case in point: how they got here in the first place.

He knows it's night outside, but the absence of light also makes him worry about whether the chamber is sealed, and the amount of oxygen left in the cave. Cas may not need any to survive, but Sam is not keen to die by slow suffocation.

He hopes Dean gets back soon.

The darkness is like a living entity itself, yet after a few moments, a soft glow begins to permeate the cloying shadow. Sam straightens in confusion, until he realizes the light is emanating  _from_   _Cas_. There's a soft aura around the angel's skin, suffusing through the air just enough to cast their small corner in a warm halo of light.

"Is that better?" the angel asks tentatively.

Sam gapes at him for a beat. "Uh, yeah." But then he frowns. "Shouldn't you be saving your strength to get us out of here, though?"

Cas heaves a sigh. "This doesn't take much energy. The amount I'd need to free us would require several more hours of… 'recharging my batteries.'"

Sam can just hear the air quotes, though Cas doesn't bother to lift his arms.

"I would rather put it to this use instead."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. Maybe it wouldn't make a difference in terms of Cas being able to get them out, but Sam suspects expending his grace at all will be tiring, and the angel already looks utterly exhausted.

But Sam appreciates the gesture, and something about the divine luminescence helps to calm some of his nerves from being trapped underground like this.

So he loosens some of his body's tension and softens his expression. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry I can't do more."

"You killed the monster, saved me and Dean," Sam says, trying to convey his gratitude.

"And caused us to be in this predicament," Cas argues.

Sam shakes his head. "We'll get out of this. It could have been a lot worse."

Cas falls silent, and in the faint illumination, Sam can see him staring morosely at the ceiling. He doesn't know what to say. How does one minister to an angel in need of encouragement? Especially when outside the world is on the verge of ending, and their desperate lead for a weapon to stop it turned out to be a dead end. There aren't any words to alleviate that burden.

But then, Cas wasn't offering Sam words. Just his unwavering presence and a light in the darkness.

And so Sam reaches out and lays a hand over the angel's forearm. Cas's gaze slides toward him in confusion. Sam doesn't speak, though, just gives a slight squeeze and a reassuring look.

They sit in silent solidarity for a long time. Until scraping outside heralds Dean's arrival, and the first crack in the rocks spills forth the first light of dawn.


	19. Kidnapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For I Am A Difference Maker, who requested Cas saving Sam.

Sam was tired of getting kidnapped. Three times in the last two months was excessive, even by his standards. Dean wouldn't let him live it down, big brother always swooping in for the rescue.

Except this time Dean didn't even know he was missing, because as far as they'd known, they'd finished the hunt, cleared the vamp nest that had been steadily picking off the locals. Dean had hit the bar scene to score a celebratory hookup, while Sam had headed back to the motel.

But apparently they'd missed one.

The pissed off vampire had jumped Sam before he could even get the key card in the door lock. Now he was tied to a chair in the dirty and blood-splattered shack that used to be the nest. Sam tugged at his bonds again, not that they were any looser than five minutes ago.

The vampire stalked around him, idly twirling Sam's knife in his hand. It was probably a dominance display; he didn't need a knife to tear Sam apart.

"I'm gonna bleed you dry, slowly," the vamp sneered.

Sam gritted his teeth. He could feel the pulse point in his neck jumping, saw the vampire's eyes dilate in response. In an eye blink, the vamp was on top of him, one hand on his head and forcing it back to expose his jugular. Sam let out a frustrated cry as he struggled futilely against the ropes and fangs grazed his flesh.

And then the door blew completely off its hinges, sailing through the air and crashing into the opposite wall.

Sam flinched in surprise, and the vamp jerked away from him to snarl at the intruder.

Silhouetted by the waxing dawn, a broad-shouldered figure filled the door frame. Sam's first thought was "Dean," but as his savior stepped inside, the air crackled and a pair of eyes blazed with a blue aura.

The vampire lunged forward, and the avenging angel met him head on, throwing an arm up to catch the vamp's wrist midair before it could strike with Sam's knife. A glint of steel flashed in the dark, followed by a gurgled gasp.

Cas yanked his angel blade free and let the body drop. Sam gaped at him in stupefaction as he hurried over and deftly sliced the ropes.

"Are you all right?" Cas asked urgently, fingers automatically reaching toward his forehead, and a splash of warmth filled Sam's veins as the scratches on his neck healed.

"Yeah," he said, pushing himself up out of the chair and rubbing his wrists, even though the rope burns had been healed as well. "What are you doing here? I thought you left."

Cas had helped them out on the hunt, since they'd determined a large nest was most likely responsible for the multiple killings. But he'd left soon after they'd finished.

"I did," Cas replied. "But my truck broke down several miles outside of town. I couldn't get a hold of you or Dean, so I walked back to your motel, and found signs of a struggle and some of your blood. I realized we may not have fully eradicated the nest after all."

He looked around the shack. "Where's Dean?"

"Probably sneaking out of some waitress's apartment," Sam huffed. But he softened his expression for the angel. "I'm grateful, though. If you hadn't come when you did…"

Cas's mien darkened as he turned a baleful look on the deceased vampire. "Yes, it seems my bad luck turned out fortuitous."

"We'll give you a ride back to your truck and I'm sure Dean will get it started again," Sam assured him. "Or maybe we could get you another vehicle…"

"The truck is fine," Cas said as they made their way outside into the soft suffusion of morning.

Sam paused as he realized something. "You walked all the way out here, didn't you?"

"Well, ran was more like it." Cas turned and gave him a once-over. "Are you good to walk back or would you like to wait for me to get Dean?"

Sam shook his head sharply. "I can walk."

Even though the vamp was dead, there was no reason to stay out here. And there was no reason for Cas to make the trek back by himself and then find Dean so they could drive out  _again_  to pick up Sam.

Besides, he had good company.


	20. Balthazar Knows Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For jelena789, who asked for something from season 6 with happy moments. Not a lot of happy to go around in that season…but I did my best.

When Castiel was avoiding his armies and lieutenants, Balthazar knew he was most likely sequestering himself away in that autistic man's heaven. None of the other angels had figured it out yet, but Balthazar was a sneaky bloke and had tailed Cas one time to find out where he was slipping off to. He'd thought it'd been the Winchesters, and had planned to read their fearless leader the riot act for ignoring crucial matters like  _civil war_  to help out those ungrateful hairless apes.

But it seemed Castiel was avoiding them more and more, too. And that gave Balthazar cause for concern.

He made sure no one was following him before he took a circuitous flight through this part of Heaven that their army was currently holding and landed in the middle of a brightly sunlit garden. Sure enough, Castiel was sitting on a bench, gazing out over the roses and shrubbery while the human soul flew a kite in the far corner.

"Cas, we talked about this," Balthazar said without preamble, crossing his arms and trying to look chiding. "You put this little army together; you can't keep ignoring them."

Castiel flicked an irritated glare up at him. "Every leader needs time and space to think."

"About what?"

He dropped his gaze and lowered his voice. "Many things."

"Yes, well, this tall, dark, and brooding thing really doesn't work for you. Vampires sort of have a monopoly on it, anyway. Although you do have the trench coat…"

Castiel shot him a sharp glower. "Do you have something important to tell me or can you leave me to some peace and quiet?"

Balthazar snorted. "Peace and quiet is the last thing you need. I know how your mind works, Cas. You're pouring everything into this war—and giving what scraps of yourself you have left to the Winchesters when they ring. You're going to burn out."

Castiel shook his head. "Raphael must be stopped."

Balthazar's expression finally darkened. "Don't lose yourself in the process."

His brother looked away, and after a long beat, said quietly, "I'm not sure that's an option anymore."

Balthazar exhaled heavily. When Castiel had first convinced him to join their noble but foolhardy cause, he'd done it partly out of sentimentality for the good old days, partly out of self-preservation since he had turned Raphael's vessel to salt. He hadn't wanted any responsibilities, had agreed to retrieve the Heavenly weapons for Cas's side, but that was it.

Now, though, he was slowly turning into his brother's keeper. A role he hadn't sought out, yet one he couldn't turn his back on. Because deep down he loved his brother. And he didn't like the changes he was seeing taking place, the toll this war was taking on Castiel, slowly draining that spark and passion out of him.

Balthazar just didn't know how to help. Copious amounts of alcohol would be his suggestion, but he knew Cas wouldn't go for it.

So maybe he needed to take a page out of Gabriel's playbook instead.

Balthazar flapped his wings and flew to another section of Heaven where animals who didn't have a family to reunite with were kept. He picked up the first puppy that greeted him, a brown and white mutt with floppy ears, and flew back to the garden.

The minute he landed, he heard Cas let out an audible sigh of vexation. "Balthazar, I said—"

Balthazar dropped the puppy in his lap, cutting off the reprimand. For a moment, Castiel just stared at the animal in stupefaction. The puppy whined and jumped at his chest, trying to lick his face as his tail wagged at a whirlwind speed.

Castiel sighed exasperatedly. "Balthazar, now is hardly the time."

"I dare you to look at that face and tell him that."

Castiel rolled his eyes as he finally reached his hands up to keep the puppy from slipping off his lap. The dog let out a small yip and pawed at Castiel's chest some more. With a put-upon look, Cas started to rub the pup behind its ears. Its tail whirred faster and it jumped even higher to start licking underneath Castiel's chin. Cas tried to shove the puppy down, though gently.

Balthazar merely stood back and watched as Castiel's irritation gradually began to shift until his annoyed mien cracked into a fraction of a smile. And then a small huff of laughter passed his stern lips as the dog's wet tongue tickled under his jaw.

Balthazar crossed his arms smugly.

Cas glanced up, and his eyes briefly narrowed. "Don't you dare tell anyone about this."

He scoffed. "Are you kidding?  _You'd_  better not tell anyone about this. I have a much more hard-earned reputation to keep than you."

Castiel shook his head, but it was with a glimmer of fondness, and when he looked back down at the puppy, tail thumping happily against his thigh, there was an air of the kind of peace he'd said he'd been searching for.

Balthazar sighed. Too bad they couldn't throw a million puppies at Raphael.


	21. What Could Have Been

_"Such a waste of a good soldier."_

_Dean tried not to engage Michael in conversation after the archangel had gone back on their deal and hijacked his body, but the offhand comment after their brief encounter with Cas stirred Dean's already stewing ire._

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_

_Michael turned his gaze inward, mouth curving into a smirk. "Our Castiel was an artist. I can see in your mind you were Alastair's star pupil. In my world, Castiel was Naomi's."_

Dean had plenty of haunted memories from his time being an angel condom before Sam and the others had found a way to free him, but that moment was the one currently sticking in his brain.

He made his way down the bunker corridor to Cas's room and raised his hand to knock, hesitating for a beat before swallowing and rapping his knuckles against the wood.

"Come in."

Dean opened the door and stepped inside. Cas was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a large tome spread in his lap. He'd been going through the archives in search of something to help Jack since the kid had lost his grace. If anyone knew how hard that was, it was Cas.

The angel immediately set the book aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Dean. How are you?"

"Fine," he said a tad gruffly. He wished everyone would stop asking him that and treating him like glass. Yeah, being possessed by Michael had sucked—had been horrible at many points—but Dean had had worse.

…And, apparently, he wasn't the only one.

He roved his gaze around the room aimlessly.

Cas canted his head. "Do you need something?"

"No."

Cas fell silent, regarding him with a patient look.

Dean took a deep breath and finally turned to face the angel. "What happened with Naomi?"

Cas frowned, and he started to fidget ever so slightly. "Naomi? What do you mean? She, uh, told me Heaven is running out of power…"

"No, before that. Back- back when she got you out of Purgatory."

Cas's expression immediately closed off. "Why do you want to know about that?" he asked stiffly.

Dean's gut pinged, and he hated that Michael's insinuations had been on the mark. "She tortured you."

Cas pivoted away. "And made me her puppet," he added bitterly. "What's your point, Dean?"

"Michael showed me how the you in the Apocalypse world ended up the way he did."

He heard Cas suck in a sharp breath, and then the angel's shoulders slumped.

"Again," Cas said more quietly. "What's your point?"

Dean swallowed hard. "That could have been you." His chest constricted at the thought. "If you hadn't escaped Naomi…that could have been you."

Cas's head dropped low. "I know."

Silence fell between them, harsh and grating. Dean didn't know what to say. Why had he even brought it up?

Because it turned out Naomi was still alive. Cas's tormentor—his own personal Alastair—was out there. Dean knew all too well the terror that must have stirred up for Cas, and he had to admit he was afraid himself. With Heaven in such dire straits, what was to stop Naomi from coming after Cas again? Taking him back to Heaven and brainwashing him again?

"You need to be careful," Dean blurted.

Cas let out a scornful sound. "Afraid I'll go Winter Soldier on you?"

Dean would have been proud of the pop culture reference if the topic weren't so serious. He moved closer and clasped Cas's shoulder, turning him around to meet his gaze.

"I saw what she could do to you, Cas. I don't ever want you to have to go through that."

Cas lifted his head and a muscle in his jaw visibly tightened. "I won't lie and say the thought of Naomi still being alive doesn't turn my stomach to acid. But I don't think I have to worry about ending up like that other Castiel."

"But if she came after you…"

Cas gave him a wan smile. "Then I know you and Sam would move Heaven and Hell to get me back. That's what's different in this world. That's what helps me close my eyes at night."

A stitch in Dean's chest loosened. That was true. In that other world, he and Sam had never been born. And it wasn't just the earth and humanity that had suffered because of it. Dean knew they made a difference in the world, saved lives, but he'd never before realized how much of an impact he'd made in Cas's. Dean used to think he'd caused an angel to fall and lose everything.

But with a knowing nod from Cas, Dean realized the truth was that he and Sam had  _saved_  their best friend, just by knowing him.

The fate of that other world wouldn't come to pass here, because they had each other. And always would.


	22. Feathers In the Backseat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is because of all those comments on "Keepsake" about Cas's feathers in the Impala.

When Dean first started finding feathers in the backseat of the Impala, he was mildly annoyed. Like he needed something else to pick up after. And sometimes the plumes ended up wedged between the leather seats and he had to dig to get them out or use a vacuum. Yet there was something so…reverent about the way the sleek black feather looked in the palm of his hand. Almost a phantom in the dark, like the massive shadows he'd once seen in a barn, except when a shard of moonlight happened to strike it, and then it almost seemed to absorb the light and suffuse an ethereal aura of its own. And in the daytime, there were iridescent glints of sapphire and indigo.

Dean found himself holding onto them. Besides, an angel's feather might be useful for something.

And then when Cas was…dead…Dean would sometimes find the odd feather trapped underneath one of the seats where he'd missed it before, and it would open the wounds in his heart anew.

But then Cas was alive again, and Dean started finding feathers in the backseat again. They were less a nuisance then and more like an old friend coming home.

Until the angels fell and Cas lost his wings. There were no more feathers after that. Not just because Cas was human now, but also because Dean had kicked him out, and he wasn't even around. After that, after Cas got his mojo back, he'd picked up a vehicle of his own and didn't ride in the Impala anymore.

Dean took on the Mark of Cain, went off the rails, and released the Darkness. Cas said yes to Lucifer. Team Free Will just kept getting torn apart, and the absence of feathers was just another reminder of why they couldn't have nice things.

Until Dean found one. It was after the Lily Sunder incident. A lone feather sticking out between the backseat cushions. Unlike the ones before, this one was ragged, with crinkled gaps in the vane. It had a dull, matte finish. Not even in direct sunlight did it gleam.

Dean figured it was from how beaten up Cas had been from the fight with Ishim, even though wings hadn't really featured then.

But then came another feather later. And another. Each one a withered and ruined form of its previous magnificence. And Dean thought about how Cas didn't fly anymore. Not even after he'd gotten his own grace back from Metatron.

Dean fingered the tattered feather in his hand before tucking it carefully inside his jacket. He went inside the bunker to the library and pulled a wooden box off one of the shelves. Opening it, he looked over the stack of feathers collected over the years. Even after all this time, the black feathers still radiated a divine sort of quality. Except the recent ones.

Dean took the latest feather out of his coat and placed it in the box with the others, then shut the lid.

When Cas died—for good this time—Dean moved the box to his room, and in the dark of night with an almost empty liquor bottle by his side, he'd pull that box out and open it, and gaze at the last remnants of the best friend he'd ever had. And when tawny down feathers started appearing in the backseat of the Impala, it made Dean hate Jack all the more.

But then a miracle happened. Cas came back. Again. Dean never should have doubted. And since Jack was the one who woke Cas up in the Empty, Dean supposed he shouldn't have judged the kid too harshly, either. And now there were two feathered beings riding around in the backseat, but that was okay.

He picked up the golden feather from the floor, then the glossy, whole, onyx plume beside it. In the shade of night, one glowed like the sun and the other like the moon. Dean let slip a secret smile, and tucked them away in the special box he now kept under his bed. Just for safe keeping.


	23. Common Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A conversation I thought would have been neat to see ever since the end of season 12, but there was just never any place in canon for it to happen.

Castiel wandered into the bunker's kitchen, seeking out the coffee machine. It was after midnight and he was tired. Not physically—angels didn't need sleep—but it was like a heavy weariness had settled into his bones over the past few years. It wasn't that coffee would fix it, either, but it was a comfort drink he'd grown fond of.

He drew to a stop as he found someone already in the kitchen. Mary was sitting at the table, a bottle of beer resting idly in her hand as she stared at it. It took her a moment to notice him, and she blinked with a jolt.

"Castiel."

He marked the dark circles under her eyes and haunted look within their depths. "Can't sleep?" he asked, moving to the coffee maker to turn it on.

"No. You?"

"I don't sleep."

He put the pre-packaged coffee pack in the machine and hit the brew button. As it gurgled to life, he tried not to shift awkwardly in the following silence, with only the sound of the spitting liquid into the mug to fill the room. He felt like he should offer comfort of some kind, though he always found himself woefully inadequate when it came to such things.

"What you went through in the Apocalypse world, it must have been very difficult…" he began.

Mary looked startled for a moment. "Oh, no. I mean, yes, it was. But that's not…" She paused to take a breath, expression saddening. "In a way, things were simpler there. It was survival all the time. There was no room to think about…other things."

The coffee machine silenced, and Castiel picked up the mug, wrapping his hands around the ceramic. "Other things…like Sam and Dean?" He imagined she'd thought about them quite a bit.

Mary shook her head, the lines around her mouth tightening. "You weren't here, so you didn't see…" Her voice choked off. "I was working with the British Men of Letters."

"Dean told me," Castiel said quietly. The hunter had been very upset over it, too, though Castiel had understood to a certain degree why Mary would have joined them. And then Sam and Dean had agreed to work with them, too.

Mary turned away, gazing at the wall. "Well, when I realized my mistake, I tried to leave. They didn't let me. They…" Her chest hitched audibly. "They…did stuff. I could feel myself disappearing, my free will. And when they were done, I was theirs. I did their bidding without question. I killed other hunters." Her voice cracked as she added in a hoarse whisper, "I almost killed my boys."

Castiel could only stare at her. He hadn't heard about all this. But, then, he'd been off with Kelly and then Lucifer had been right on their tail and…there hadn't been time. There was never time.

"But you didn't," he said, because that was the important thing, the one thing that mattered to him when he remembered what he'd almost been forced to do. Castiel moved forward and took a seat across from her. "I've been there. I was once brainwashed by another angel who forced me to do terrible things."

Flashes of hundreds of dead Deans filled Castiel's mind. He clenched his fingers around the mug.

"She almost forced me to kill Dean." The real one. The one that Castiel never would have been able to live with.

Mary gaped at him incredulously.

Castiel gave her a sympathetic half smile. "I understand what you're going through."

She swallowed. "How…how do you deal with it?"

Castiel thought about her comment regarding the Apocalypse world, how it was simpler there, where there was no time to dwell on past horrors. He thought about helping Metatron and the angels falling. He thought about standing across from Naomi in Heaven, her smug mien looking down on him.

"I suppose I haven't," he finally admitted. "There were always other…crises, to deal with."

Even now, as horrific as finding out Naomi was still alive was, Heaven was dying, and that was more important.

Castiel frowned. "Working with Ketch in the Apocalypse world couldn't have been easy."

Mary let out a harsh snort. "It was necessary."

"I understand that, too."

She canted a considering look at him. "That angel who did that to you…where is she now?"

"I thought she'd died, but turns out she's still alive. And ruling Heaven again." His lips pressed into a thin line of distaste. "And I have been forced to…work with her recently."

Mary huffed humorlessly. "Seems we have a lot in common."

Castiel gave her a wan smile. "Seems so."

Silence settled between them for several moments. Castiel glanced at her half empty beer bottle.

"I can help with the nightmares," he offered.

She quirked a skeptical brow at him, but then seemed to think about it. "I'd appreciate that," she said softly.

Castiel stood up, intending to walk her back to her room, but she stopped after the first step.

"Castiel."

He paused and turned back around.

"What about your nightmares?"

"Angels don't sleep."

Mary shot him a wry look and flicked a pointed glance at the coffee mug.

Castiel's expression softened. "I'm fine," he assured her.

"I'm sure you can convince everyone else of that, but I know better," she replied, compassionate eyes boring into him. "I  _know_."

His shoulders sagged. Yes, she would.

Mary closed the small distance between them and put a comforting hand on his arm. "I want you to call me every time you have to go see this other angel. Before and after."

Castiel frowned. "Mary…"

"No arguments," she interrupted, adopting what Castiel recognized as a motherly tone. It was quite hard to dismiss.

"These things," she went on. "They're not just going to go away. And working with the enemy…it's dangerous. No matter how necessary." She squeezed his arm. "I don't want to lose you again."

His heart constricted at her heartfelt tone. And a small part of him was…relieved, that he had shared this burden with someone. Someone who understood, and who wouldn't let this darkness of silence consume him.

Castiel nodded. "Alright. And if you ever need to talk…"

Mary's expression sobered. "Not yet. But…eventually, yes."

Castiel understood that, too.

They turned and headed back to the dormitories, leaving the forgotten alcohol and coffee behind. Those were flimsy band-aids at best, and weak denials at worst. Castiel had never tried anything else. But he wanted to help Mary. Any maybe they could end up helping each other.


	24. Friendly Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself…
> 
> SPOILERS for 14x1!

Sam bent over the dead demon and rifled through his pockets for the keys to the manacles. He straightened with a wince. He was going to be hurting for a few days. They all were. A quick glance around showed they were all alive, albeit quite beat up. Sam just wanted to get home.

He turned around and went to where Cas was chained to a chair, crouching down to reach the sigiled handcuffs. Even Cas had taken a pretty bad beating. The angel made a small noise in the back of his throat as Sam unlocked the cuffs then leaned down to do the ones around his ankles. When he straightened back up, prepared to give Cas a hand up out of the chair, Sam paused and frowned at a fresh stain of blood seeping through the trench coat. Where a bullet hole was.

Sam's eyes widened in alarm. "Cas?"

"It's fine," Cas gritted out, casting a quick glance over at Mary and Bobby. "It's just lead. It won't kill me."

Sam sputtered soundlessly. Was he joking?

"Can you heal it?" he demanded.

Cas nodded jerkily as he pushed himself to his feet on shaky legs. "I just need…some time. It's fine, Sam," he insisted.

Though he'd been keeping his voice low, Sam hadn't, and the others were gathering around now.

Mary's expression slackened in horror when she saw the growing blood stain. "Oh god. Castiel, I'm sorry…"

They'd come in guns blazing, and it had been a mad dash for cover on all sides. Except Cas hadn't been able to move.

"I'll be fine," the angel reiterated, the extra gravel in his voice somewhat belying that. "It's not your fault. I appreciate you all coming for me."

Jack inched forward, mouth turning down. "You're not healing."

"I will."

Sam had gotten better at calling the angel's bullshit, and his heart sank with suspicion. "You can't until we get the bullet out, can you?"

Cas blinked in surprise, then clenched his jaw. "I could…probably use some help with that," he admitted.

Sam wrapped an arm around Cas's waist to help brace him. "Then let's get back to the bunker. You gonna make it?"

"Yes."

Mary slipped in to support Cas's other side, and they all made their way out of the barbecue joint. They eased Cas into the backseat of the Impala and Sam grabbed some first aid supplies from the trunk to make a compress to at least stop the bleeding. Then they climbed into their vehicles and turned toward home.

Sam kept glancing in the rearview anxiously. He knew Cas would be okay. They'd get back to the bunker and patch him up. It was just that Sam couldn't bear to lose someone else. Especially not Cas. Not again.

Mary twisted around from the front passenger seat. "I really am sorry, Castiel."

"You had no choice," he replied, sounding tired. "You were outnumbered. At least they weren't angel bullets." He tried to quirk a smile, though it came out as a grimace.

"Save your strength," Sam automatically said. He tightened his grip around the steering wheel and pressed the gas a little harder.

Cas had fallen into a doze by the time they made it back to the bunker, and it took a few prods to rouse him. He looked even more haggard as Sam and Mary helped him downstairs. They got a few wide-eyed looks from people on their way to the infirmary, which Sam ignored.

"Okay," Sam said, after laying Cas down on the exam chair. "Please tell me the bullet hasn't moved."

"No," Cas grunted, shifting in discomfort. "Forceps should be enough."

Sam nodded grimly as he went to retrieve the tool.

"Can I help?" Mary asked.

"You should check on Jack," Cas said.

"Alright." She paused for a moment, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. "I'm glad you're alright."

He gave her a wan smile in return.

Sam waited until she left before stepping forward with the forceps and taking a deep breath.

"Just do it, Sam," Cas said stoically.

"Yeah."

As much as it turned his stomach, he figured Cas could take it better than a mortal. Still, he didn't like causing his friend pain.

Cas tensed when Sam inserted the instrument, and squeezed his eyes shut as he worked it deeper, feeling for the bullet.

"There," Cas gasped, just as Sam felt the metal touch something unyielding.

It took a few tries to get a good grasp of the bullet, but he finally got it out. Cas sagged in the chair, breathing labored. Sam grabbed a fresh patch of gauze and taped it over the wound.

"You okay?" he asked.

Cas nodded. "Yes," he said hoarsely.

Sam hadn't really expected a different answer.

"Come on. You should get some rest." He slung Cas's arm over his shoulder and helped him from the infirmary to his room and his bed.

"Thank you, Sam," Cas said, and there was a heaviness in his tone that held more than just the emergency field surgery.

Sam paused on his way out to look back. "Always," he said, equally sincere. "Always, Cas."


	25. Untitled (Season 14)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by 14x03 but no spoilers.

Sam stares at Dean sitting across the table from him, eyes earnestly pleading with his older brother. "Dean, talk to us."

"There's nothin' to talk about, Sam," he retorts with that brusque tone that warns them to drop it. But they can't.

"Dean, come on. If there's anyone who knows what you went through…" Sam gestures helplessly at him and Cas, the angel standing a few feet away, but equidistant between them.

They  _do_  know what Dean's going through, and Sam knows from experience that bottling it up won't help anything. He figures Dean knows that too; he's just being stubborn.

"Then there's no reason to talk about it," Dean growls. "And I already told you, Sam, I don't remember most of what Michael did. I was drowning. Underwater,  _suffocating_. Every single second."

Sam's eyes grow hot with moisture again, the pain of knowing the kind of anguish his brother has suffered. But the problem is, in some ways, Dean's still there, still drowning.

And as much as Sam wants to help him, in actuality he doesn't really know how to. They're both floundering, trying to pick up the pieces after Michael's possession.

It's Cas who breaks the silence. "For me, it was fire," he says quietly. "It was like I was burning alive as Lucifer's grace ate away at mine."

Sam's chest tightens, and when no one says anything, he picks up with: "Lucifer let me see everything. But it was like I was trapped on the other side of a looking glass, and it was…cold. I knew I was still in my own body, but sometimes it felt like I was inches away from falling into a bottomless abyss."

Dean looks away. "Yeah, well, you two were both strong enough to take back control," he says bitterly.

Cas gives him a sympathetic look. "I only took control for a few moments to save Sam. And even though I fully accepted that you needed Lucifer to fight Amara, I knew I wouldn't be able to cast him out afterward. Sam took control to stop Lucifer from killing you." Cas's expression softens even more. "I have no doubt that if Michael came after one of us, you would have found the strength to stop him."

Dean's eyes glisten and he swallows hard. "I want to kill him."

"I know," Sam says. For him, his tormenter, the fabric of his nightmares, is finally dead. It'd taken eight years, though, and Sam doesn't want his brother to live with that haunting fear for so long.

"And we will," Cas promises. "You defeated Lucifer—more than once."

"Dean," Sam jumps in, "I know you keep saying it, but no one expects you to be okay after what happened. Especially not me and Cas."

"Well, rehashing it over and over isn't going to make it better."

"It might." Sam shrugs, desperate for  _something_  to serve as a lifeline here. "I never talked about it afterward. Neither did Cas." He looks over at the angel, feeling a pang of regret for the pain they'd all let fester between the three of them. Yet still they'd hung on, by the skin of their teeth. "And maybe it won't make it 'better.' But…maybe it's time we tried a different approach. Maybe we can all find some healing here."

Dean's jaw is tight with tension and brimming protest, but his expression wavers as he flicks his gaze between Sam and Cas pensively. If there's one thing Sam knows, it's that Dean will always do whatever he needs to, to watch out for his family. Same for Sam. Same for Cas.

Maybe in trying to help each other, they could finally find a way to also help themselves. Because that's what kept bringing them back from the brink—family. And that's what would keep holding them together.


	26. Sport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another "ficlet" that's really much too long to be one, lol. But here it is.

Dean and Sam stand in the back row of the audience seating. There's more people here than he expected, a throng of yelling, boisterous bodies shouting cheers and jeers down at the arena below. It's a pit, a concrete floor and walls topped with barbed wire that rises up and curves inward into spears just below the spectators' balcony. It's built to shred anything that tries to escape.

Sam's breath catches in his throat as the next contender is brought out, while Dean watches with steely fury.

They've taken his suit and trench coat and forced him into a costume for their little games—brown breastplate, Roman skirt with leather lappets over a short tunic, vambraces on his forearms, and sandals. He even has a sword. The only thing that doesn't match the period piece is the metal collar cinched snugly around his neck.

A few people in the audience let out catcalls. Dean wants to butcher every last one of them. The Mark on his arm sings for it. But he can't yet, because they haven't found a way down into the barracks where the prisoners are kept, and this is a rescue mission first, retribution second.

He and Sam should move, should start looking for side entrances or stairwells, but Dean can't bring himself to take his eyes off the figure in the center of the pit. Two werewolves enter the ring. They're wearing nothing more than sackcloth, torn in places. Probably from shifting. They have swords too.

The angel glowers at them as they begin to stalk around him. And then they move like lightning. Swords clash with discordant clangs and the werewolves snarl. The angel is a silent storm, pivoting and parrying, spinning back and forth to meet the blows coming at him from both sides. Dean always knew Cas was a warrior, but he's never seen how damn artful he is at it. Cas moves like water, the sword an extension of his body. Even in a fight against two monsters—who are abandoning their swords in favor of shifting to teeth and claws—the angel possesses poise and grace. It's no wonder he's their reigning champion.

The transformed wolves lunge. Cas brandishes his sword and cuts them down. There's a ripple of disappointment through the crowd; the fight is over too soon for their bloodlust.

Dean clenches his fists. Hunters did this. Switched from killing monsters to capturing them and making a profit off supernatural dog fights.

The thing is, Dean's not sure he would have batted an eye if they had just stuck to vampires, werewolves, and the like. But they'd taken his friend. Forced him into slavery for sport. And that crossed the line.

Cas stands in the middle of the pit, sword dripping crimson onto the concrete. His eyes are cold, not quite deadened, but getting close. He's been missing for almost three months. It'd taken the Winchesters too long to realize it, and even longer to find a lead. The pamphlet advertising the underground fights and their undefeated contender, "The Angel," sits crumpled in Dean's pocket. The sketch artist had captured Cas's likeness with only a few scant lines.

The door to the arena slides open and three handlers walk in. Cas slowly turns to face them. His sword is raised, and the tension in his taut muscles telegraphs his intention to not go quietly. It must be a repeated ritual, because one handler simply presses a button on a remote. The collar lights up and Cas's body goes rigid. His fingers whiten around the hilt of the sword, refusing to let go, but it only takes another push of the button for his hand to spasm open and for the blade to clatter on the ground. Cas drops to his knees, and the other two men move in to grab him and drag him out of the arena. A pair of vampires are brought in next.

Dean finally turns away. His stomach is churning with volatile choler and his arm itches.

He and Sam find a bookie and ask to speak with the orchestrator of this little event.

"How would he like a supply of more angels for the fights?"

That gets some attention, and they're escorted through a door and into an office. Some guy with red hair is sitting behind a desk, but Dean doesn't stop long enough to get a name. He spins so fast and punches their escort straight in the face. Blood spurts from a broken nose, and he goes down, instantly out cold.

Sam whips his gun out and aims it at the boss man. "Take us down to where you keep the contenders."

The guy doesn't argue, and turns to open a concealed door in the wall. A set of stairs leads down. Once they're in a hallway, Dean gives the guy a shove and tells him to show them where the angel is. They pass bare cells containing a variety of monsters before coming to one at the very back. It's dim inside, but Dean can make out the shape of someone sitting huddled against the far corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He recognizes the head of dark hair.

The lock is old-fashioned and Sam demands the key. As soon as the guy hands it over, Sam clocks him with the butt of his gun, and he goes down like a rag doll.

Dean unlocks the cell and sweeps inside while Sam stands guard at the door.

"Cas."

Dean kneels in front of him, and Cas looks up with wide eyes full of stunned disbelief, like never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined Dean and Sam could be here. His lips move around Dean's name, though no sound comes out.

"Are you hurt?" Dean asks.

Cas doesn't answer; his expression only pinches. Dean frowns at him, and Cas reaches up to gingerly touch the metal collar. Dean sees red as he gets it. Cas has effectively been gagged. Dean wonders what the angel said to make these bastards go to such lengths.

He tilts Cas's head forward so he can get a look at the collar, but there's no latch or clasp he can flip to get the damned thing off.

"Okay, come on."

He grabs Cas's arm and hauls him up, then leads him out of the cell. Sam shoots Cas a look mixed with relief and worry before falling in behind them to cover their backs as they make their way toward the stairs to get out of this hellhole.

A man rounds the corner before they get there and pulls up short. Dean recognizes him as the handler who used the remote on Cas. He doesn't even hesitate before pulling his gun and shooting the bastard point blank.

"Sam, see if he's got a key for the collar."

Sam's expression is tight, but he doesn't say anything as he moves forward and rifles through the guy's pockets. He comes out with the remote, and Dean feels Cas instantly stiffen beside him. Then Sam pulls out a smaller box of similar design and stands quickly. He comes over and lifts the smaller device to the collar. There's a tiny beep and click, and then Sam's pulling the heinous thing off and throwing it on the ground.

Cas rubs at his throat. "Thank you," he rasps.

They resume their escape route up the stairs and out the office. There's a backdoor into the alley so they can avoid going out through the spectator balcony. But then Dean hears a raucous clamor echo through the opposite door, and he stops. His hand is still on Cas's arm, and he nudges the angel toward Sam.

"Take him."

Sam sputters in response. "Dean, what are you doing? Dean!"

But he's already headed back down the stairs to the cells. He makes his way to the center, stops, and raises his voice.

"Listen up. My name is Dean Winchester, and I'd just as soon kill you all where you stand. That's my job. But these hunters upstairs, they're barbarians. Dressing you up as gladiators and sending you into a ring to kill each other, all for their own entertainment."

There were a few rumbling growls at that.

"So I have a proposition for you. I let you all out, and you can take your revenge on them as you see fit. While me, my brother, and the angel leave in one piece. Got it?"

He roves his gaze around the closest cells where the monsters within shift and fidget. But then a vampire walks up to the bars, teeth bared.

"Got it," she hisses.

Dean strolls out of the warehouse just as the screams start.

Sam is standing by the Impala, Cas already tucked into the backseat. His brother's expression is terrified.

"Dean, what did you do?"

"I gave them a sporting chance."

He climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine, making Sam frantically scramble into the passenger seat. And Dean pulls out of there without a second thought.

He drives for a while until he finally veers off the highway at a rest stop. He grabs a pair of jeans, t-shirt, and an extra set of boots from the trunk, which he hands to Cas so he can get out of those degrading clothes.

Cas takes them wordlessly and heads for the restroom.

"Dean," Sam says quietly.

"Don't."

The Mark burbles, discontent with Dean's form of vengeance since it wasn't him personally partaking in it. But the Mark can shove it. Those bastards got what they deserved, and right now the only thing that matters is getting Cas home.

When the angel comes back dressed in regular clothes, the costume is nowhere to be seen, probably left on a filthy bathroom floor where it belongs. Dean makes a mental note to take Cas shopping for a new suit and trench coat.

He watches with scrutiny as Cas heads straight for the backseat again, not saying a word. Sam's jaw is working like he has a bunch of questions he wants to ask, probably "how did they grab you?", "how long were you there?", "what did they do?" Dean wants those answers too, but they can wait. He shoots his brother a warning look and gives him a subtle head shake as they climb back into the car.

He starts up the engine again but pauses to twist around and face the backseat. "Cas," he says. "It's over. We're going home."

Cas closes his eyes and lets out a full body shudder, but then nods. "Thank you," he whispers.


End file.
